


To Participate in Jointly

by blehgah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Winter, the smut has arrived, the whole group is there but they don't talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-11 22:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9038588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: The boys are filming a photoshoot and the heating in the building is inadequate, to say the least. Seungcheol has a creative solution to the problem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Havokftw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/gifts).



> silly holiday fic inspired by this [tweet](https://twitter.com/havoktreeftw/status/809558501370580992) and its thread. dedicated to Tree for being a lovely human being; consider this your christmas gift.
> 
> happy holidays y'all!!

BOOM BOOM promotions are going well.

After the showcase at the beginning of the month, Jihoon has finally shaken off most of the anxiety that comes with showing a new side of themselves. A few of the songs on the album display a more vulnerable image, a delicate latticework of melancholy lyrics woven together by real-life experiences and a touch of dramatics. The splash of theatrics is the trickiest part, in Jihoon’s opinion: it has to be just extravagant enough to garner attention, but communicate a degree of genuineness that’s characteristic of Seventeen.

With promotions comes the usual jam-packed schedule. They’re all on the set of a photoshoot right now, and vocal team has just wrapped up their segment.

In the middle of December, it is _fucking freezing,_ even indoors. What kind of low-budget bullshit is this, honestly? Jihoon hangs around the set as performance team stands around, waiting for directions, fighting off frostbite by shoving his hands under his armpits. The rest of vocal team is scattered around the room, talking to each other and various other members of hip hop team, who were the first ones to go.

Jihoon is idly watching Jeonghan and Jisoo engage in a tickle fight when something warm presses against his back. His first instinct is to lean into the comforting contact, hoping to defrost his chilled body, but his brain calls out to him and tells him to identify the newcomer first.

“Cold, Jihoon-ah?” Seungcheol asks him. He rests an arm against the back of Jihoon’s shoulders.

Seungcheol. Jihoon still isn’t sure how to react to him nowadays—even after all this time. Even after a year. More than that, now. They’re on their third comeback now and they’ve settled a bit more snugly into their respective roles as leaders, but the dynamic still feels skewed.

At this point, he has learned not to think too hard about it. Things have changed, naturally, but now Jihoon has started to think that maybe it’s not so… sharp anymore, not so rough to the touch, but it is something that sparks and crackles with electricity.

Jihoon’s body continues to incline towards that warmth. A few uncertain thoughts pass through the front of Jihoon’s mind—baseless, nagging doubts—before dissipating into the cold.

With a quiet huff of breath, Jihoon leans into Seungcheol’s side.

“I have no idea why it’s so fucking cold in here,” Jihoon whines. “You think these people would have heard of a thing called a radiator.”

“Maybe it’s for the atmosphere,” Seungcheol suggests. “You know—genuinely rosy cheeks. That natural blush. Something like that.”

“I’m calling bullshit.”

Seungcheol laughs. The vibration plays along the discs of Jihoon’s spine like a set of silver bells.

“Well, at least we’re done now.” Seungcheol shifts a bit and the curve of his side fits more naturally against Jihoon’s shoulder. “You should go get changed, maybe.”

Tilting his head back to compensate for their height difference, Jihoon chances a glance up at Seungcheol. He’s wrapped up in a huge sweater, the collar zipped up to his chin. Although the lack of tension throughout his torso is a clear indication that he is, in fact, comfortable, the lingering red tinge in the shells of his ears gives away the reality of the cold. Jihoon wonders if the metal of his piercings makes things worse.

Jihoon sighs. “Can’t,” he replies, “the director told us to stay on set. We’re supposed to go back with the performance team to minimize the chance of us getting lost.”

With a snort, Seungcheol says, “I’m calling bullshit on _that._ ”

“I know, right?” A shiver rolls through Jihoon’s body, interrupting his speech. “Utter crap.”

A moment of silence passes through like an icy draft hugging their bodies. Again, Jihoon shivers, the tremble hard enough to knock his elbows against Seungcheol’s ribs.

“Hey,” Seungcheol starts quietly. His voice is low against Jihoon’s ear, somewhere in the area of husky and heading quickly to heated. “I have an idea,” he states.

“That smells like trouble,” Jihoon mutters in reply. He has no idea why they’re whispering, especially when no one is within earshot, but the sudden quiet possesses a certain command that Jihoon can’t help but submit himself to.

“Hey,” Seungcheol protests. There’s no heat in his tone—and definitely not the kind that was present earlier—and it rings with mirth. “Give me _some_ credit here.”

Snorting, Jihoon turns a bit to face Seungcheol. The shift in posture exposes a different side of his body to the cold, but shelters a new side in its place.

“Okay,” Jihoon says cautiously, “hit me.”

“I was thinking of something a little gentler,” Seungcheol responds, a hint of a laugh hanging around the edges of his words.

A thumb and forefinger poke out of Seungcheol’s sleeve as he raises his arm to the top of his zipper. As he pulls his sweater open, Jihoon tracks the line of movement with his eyes, trying not to get distracted by the shape of Seungcheol’s body barely hidden by the fitted fabric of the turtleneck he’s wearing underneath.

“Get in here,” Seungcheol tells him, opening both sides of his sweater with both hands.

Jihoon’s heart stops. The cold has finally consumed his body and now he’s in dreamland.

“Excuse me?” Jihoon asks.

With an impatient wiggle, Seungcheol flaps the halves of his sweater. “I said, get in here,” he hisses.

Jihoon’s gaze darts around the room. The performance team is still in the middle of their shoot. Jeonghan and Jisoo have moved onto playing some game with Hansol and Seungkwan. Seokmin, Mingyu, and Wonwoo are seated in some corner in the room, discussing something serious, if their hand gestures are anything to go by.

“Um,” Jihoon starts, but he has no chance to find the end of that sentence, as he is interrupted by Seungcheol’s strong grip pulling him into the warmth of his chest.

The familiarity of Seungcheol, well, _manhandling_ him for lack of a better word is hot under Jihoon’s skin. That display of power, both in terms of physicality and in terms of their dynamic, resounds with echoes of the past that travel over Jihoon’s nerves like licks of burning fire.

And, really, fire is appropriate, Jihoon thinks, since Seungcheol’s body heat envelops Jihoon so damn thoroughly. It snakes under the thin layers of Jihoon’s meticulously planned outfit and slithers over his skin, spreading over his icy flesh and seeping down, down, down. It drips down to the knots of his guts and pools somewhere lower—and that’s where he stops and where the flush in his face begins.

Of all the goddamn places his own body heat decides to go, it’s his fucking face?

“Here,” Seungcheol murmurs as he manipulates Jihoon’s arms with ease. He slides them into the oversized sleeves of his sweater and soon enough it’s as if they have combined into one entity, finalized by the sharp sound of Seungcheol zipping the sweater back up.

Jihoon can’t decide if he feels stupid or endeared. Stupidly endeared?

If anything, he feels warm, and that’s the important part, he supposes.

Humming, Seungcheol rests his chin on top of Jihoon’s head. Jihoon can feel the vibration of his voice bouncing through his ribcage.

“Better?” Seungcheol asks. His voice is immense within this proximity, and Jihoon feels so very tiny. But—it’s not bad, per se. Wrapped up like this, cocooned, Jihoon feels secure. Safe.

Jihoon hums and haws, drawing a laugh out of Seungcheol’s stomach.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me. I can already tell that you’re feeling better because you’ve stopped shivering.”

Damn. Leave it to his body to expose his true feelings.

Every touch between them seems amplified by their sudden intimacy. Jihoon can feel every breath filtering out of Seungcheol’s lungs, every rise and fall of his chest, every shift of every muscle in Seungcheol’s torso as he accommodates the air coming in and out of his body. Their height difference seems even more pronounced now, with the top of Jihoon’s head barely sticking out of the collar of the sweater. It’s… nice, though. His face is warm—for reasons other than his embarrassment, at least—and he can feel his nose and cheeks again.

It seems as if Seungcheol can feel his cheeks, too, pressed up against the frame of his hips. Jihoon swallows thickly and his face burns hotter.

“How much longer do you think they’re gonna take?” Jihoon asks. His words come out clipped, brusque, and though he means no harm, he can’t help but flinch at the callousness of his own voice.

It helps that the collar of the sweater muffles his words in a way that’s probably more comedic than Jihoon intends it to sound.

Seungcheol hums again. The vibration against Jihoon’s back is soothing, kind of like a massage chair. Combined with the heat cocooning his body, Jihoon feels almost at ease. The only drawback to the situation is the fact that, well, this is Seungcheol holding him close and intimate in the confined space of a piece of shared clothing. Seungcheol, Jihoon’s beloved hyung and friend of over five years. Seungcheol, the leader of their group—the one who holds too many responsibilities that conflict with Jihoon’s and the very nature of their relationship, at times.

Maybe this is one of those times. Jihoon is never sure anymore. Things aren’t as simple as they used to be.

“Hopefully not much longer,” Seungcheol replies. “I feel ridiculous.”

“ _You_ feel— _you’re_ the one who feels ridiculous?” Jihoon would spin around to face Seungcheol if he could. “I’m the one who probably looks like a small child being toted around like a toy!”

Seungcheol’s responding laughter travels down Jihoon’s skin, leaving tingling in its wake.

“You’re cute,” Seungcheol says simply.

“This was your idea!” Jihoon replies hotly. “Take responsibility!”

“I do, I do, really,” Seungcheol laughs. He brings his arms around Jihoon’s chest, hugging him close. It feels doubly awkward since Jihoon can’t escape and looks as if he were hugging himself. “I’m taking care of you by fending off the cold.”

Jihoon snorts. The flush in his face has yet to dissipate. “Yeah,” he mutters, “in the worst way possible.”

“Mmm, I can think of better ways,” Seungcheol tells him, his mouth by Jihoon’s ear, “but I’m not sure you’re ready for that quite yet.”

Jihoon’s heart stops in his chest for the second time in the span of less than an hour.

“Y-You…” Jihoon swallows. “You really are the most ridiculous human being I’ve ever had the displeasure of interacting with.”

“At least your interactions with me have been…” Seungcheol pauses for dramatic effect. Jihoon refuses to hold his breath. “...warm,” Seungcheol finishes. There’s a hint of laughter hidden in the shape of his words, but Jihoon refuses to indulge him.

“That… was bad,” Jihoon comments.

“But true.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, Jihoon concedes. “Sure. I do feel… warm.”

Seungcheol sways in place, his hips sliding back and forth over Jihoon’s ass.

“Good,” Seungcheol says simply.

Quiet falls over them, prickly and strange. Jihoon can’t untangle himself from whatever web Seungcheol has spun him into—figuratively and literally. But sometimes he feels as if he has become comfortable within Seungcheol’s clutches. He has yet to decide if that’s a bad or a good thing.

“That’s a wrap!” the director calls.

Jihoon sags a little, dipping his head even farther down the neck of Seungcheol’s sweater. Maybe if he sinks low enough, he can make Seungcheol ferry him to the dressing room. The idea feels like victory and defeat at the same time: it would transform him into the toy toddler he described earlier, but it would also save him the energy of walking getting out of the sweater and its cozy warmth.

When Jihoon starts to become a tuft of hair sticking out of Seungcheol’s clothes, Seungcheol moves his hands and laces their fingers together.

“Hey,” Seungcheol whispers. “Don’t melt on me yet. We need to go back, you know.”

“It’s too cold,” Jihoon mumbles.

“I didn’t say you had to leave.” Seungcheol squeezes Jihoon’s hands. “Come on. Let’s work together.”

So he doesn’t get the loss or the win: Seungcheol thrusts a third option into his hands and Jihoon doesn’t think he can say no.

He supposes he doesn’t want to, but that’s reading too far into it at this point.

Naturally, Seungcheol’s strides are longer than Jihoon’s, so Jihoon compensates by stretching his legs. Seungcheol senses this and tightens his movements, but then Jihoon nearly trips on his boots.

“You suck at this,” Jihoon deadpans.

“Give me a break! It’s my first time,” Seungcheol whines.

“Take responsibility for your shitty suggestions,” Jihoon replies, mirth creeping into his tone.

“I am honestly trying my best and I did not offer you the warmth of my sweater to hear your complaining.”

They manage to negotiate a clunky rhythm with only a bit of bickering. All of a sudden, Jihoon feels thankful for the sweater covering his expression; without the mask, he fears the honesty of his wide smile could give himself away. To what, he isn’t certain, but the nagging feeling lingers nonetheless.

The questioning glances they receive from their members don’t help any, but then their managers and stylists are whisking them away to prepare for their departure. Jihoon is separated from Seungcheol, and though they part while exchanging warm grins, Jihoon’s chest rings with something hollow.


	2. Chapter 2

It happens again. Jihoon isn’t sure if he should blame himself for giving into Seungcheol’s whims so easily or if he should blame Seungcheol for tempting him in the first place.

They’re changing out of their BOOM BOOM attire when a sound technician asks for him and Seungcheol—something about double checking the audio. There was a hiccup in the backing track and the staff wanted to make sure it still sounded correct.

As they pore over the data, Jihoon doesn’t notice the cold of the control room. But as they exit and start the walk back to their dressing room, Jihoon becomes aware that his thin t-shirt does a poor job of fending off the cold pressing spines into his flesh.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says to him, his voice a low rumble that stirs suspicion in Jihoon’s chest. The slanted grin on his face doesn’t make Jihoon feel any better. “Cold, Jihoon-ah?”

Jihoon chews the inside of his cheek for a second. “Yes,” he replies with some caution, “but—”

Too late. Seungcheol has already opened his sweater, glittery and somewhat sweaty from their performance, and is wiggling the sides with a suggestive and smug eyebrow waggle.

Jihoon chances a look around. There are some staff members walking briskly up and down the corridor, but they fail to spare them even a glance. Frowning, Jihoon moves his gaze to consider the shape of Seungcheol’s sweaty body.

Again, the choice is made for him: Seungcheol closes the gap between them and engulfs Jihoon in his warmth.

“Hey—” Jihoon huffs, but his voice is cut off by the zipper coming up under his nose. With some effort, he fidgets until he finds the sleeves, and then Seungcheol is trailing his fingers down the length of Jihoon’s arms before slipping their fingers together.

“There,” Seungcheol declares. “I bet you we can get back with less trouble this time.”

Jihoon takes a deep, steadying breath. “Is this a real bet? With actual money?”

“How about something better?”

Jihoon licks his lips. “Meat?” he asks.

“Damn right.”

“The place down the street from the dorm should still be open when we get back.”

Seungcheol squeezes his hands. “Okay,” Seungcheol agrees, “if we can get back to the dressing room in five minutes, working as a team, then you’ll treat me. Any longer than that, then I’ll treat you.”

Jihoon grins. “Deal.”

Seungcheol makes a show of taking out his phone and setting the timer. Now, Jihoon _could_ fight to throw things in his favour: he could refuse to cooperate at all. But he’s a fair player with a tiny soft spot for his leader, and he’s sure it won’t be so bad to treat just him.

Not that he’d ever say the words out loud, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

Seungcheol uses their joined hands to guide Jihoon’s hips. It hits Jihoon, then, how accustomed he is to the feel of Seungcheol’s body, to the rhythm of his movements—his biorhythm, Jihoon thinks with a small smile.

Their journey goes a lot smoother than their first attempt at moving together as one unit. Jihoon stretches his legs to compensate for their height difference and Seungcheol keeps his strides tighter without disrupting Jihoon’s balance. The most difficult thing about moving like this is the fact that Jihoon has to stay slightly ahead due to his position in front of Seungcheol’s body.

But the firm pressure of Seungcheol’s chest against Jihoon’s back is _nice_ , somehow: it satisfies some needy part in the pit of Jihoon’s stomach, some simple, animal hunger that constantly wonders about Seungcheol—is he eating, is he healthy, is he breathing? Having that tangible confirmation, the steady beat of Seungcheol’s heart near his own, comforts Jihoon somewhere in the tight coil of his guts.

He doesn’t know how to feel about that train of thought, so he decides that _nice_ will do for now.

“Oh my god,” Seungcheol laughs, on the verge of breathless, “we’re gonna make it!”

“Shit,” Jihoon mutters under his breath. It’s just for show. The grin on his face betrays his words completely, but he’s a victim to Seungcheol’s contagious mirth, and god, it’s been so long since they’ve just been silly like this.

They burst into the dressing room with fifteen seconds to spare. Seungcheol cheers and hugs Jihoon to his chest before spinning him around the room like a giant teddy bear.

“Meat!” he cheers. He repeats the word over and over, a victory cry, and Jihoon shakes with dizzy laughter.

Minghao and Chan are the only remaining members in the changing room when they arrive. Minghao looks up from his reflection and meets Jihoon’s eye in the mirror, raising an eyebrow.

“Hey,” Jihoon hisses, squeezing one of Seungcheol’s hands. “Shut up. They might overhear you with all your stupid shouting. I agreed to treat only you; don’t give them any ideas.”

“Yessir!” Seungcheol whispers back, but his voice is too harsh to be considered a true whisper.

“Hyung?” Chan asks, not really addressing either of them. “Was everything okay?”

Jihoon’s chin twitches as he considers lifting his head to exchange glances with Seungcheol, but then he remembers that it would be physically impossible to face Seungcheol without exiting the sweater.

Seungcheol seems to sense Jihoon’s train of thought; he releases Jihoon from the cocoon of heat that is the shared sweater. A shiver rolls through Jihoon’s body immediately, and he tries to cover it up by shaking out his shoulders. He successfully meets Seungcheol’s eye before he explains the situation to their maknae.

As Chan nods his understanding, Seungcheol hovers close to Jihoon’s back, barely touching him. That base instinct Jihoon acknowledged earlier—the one tuned into Seungcheol’s mere presence—growls somewhere in the depth of Jihoon’s brain, dissatisfied with their faint level of contact, and Jihoon has half a mind to be concerned about that. This thing rarely rears its head, but maybe this whole sweater sharing thing has roused something in him that won’t be so easily put to rest.

The thought of craving Seungcheol tastes funny in Jihoon’s mouth, but he shoves the thought away and hurries to get dressed.

 

* * *

 

When they’re walking back from the barbecue place, Jihoon is wrapped snugly in his own winter attire. Seungcheol’s shadow is long and erratic by his side, warped by the string of street lamps dotting the sidewalk, and Jihoon watches it transform with every step they take towards the dorm.

“Thanks for dinner, Jihoon-ah,” Seungcheol says, breaking the comfortable, companionable silence they’d been maintaining up until then. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a meal with just the two of us.”

Jihoon looks up at him. The brim of Seungcheol’s cap casts a dark shadow over his face, but the smile on his lips contrasts it brightly. Seungcheol is constantly sunny smiles and crescent eyes and sharp dimples, sometimes when he shouldn’t be, always when he really should be. At least that hasn’t changed, in all the years past. It stirs something in Jihoon’s stomach—something soft, comforted by the familiarity, but also something coarse and hard, unsettled by all the small changes that smile has endured over time.

But maybe that’s just how Jihoon feels about Seungcheol overall: maybe he’s hyperaware of Seungcheol’s changes due to the long lifespan of their friendship, and maybe he’s still learning how to deal with the idea of change. Seeing it in another person has been hard, and maybe it always will be; or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s Seungcheol. He’s always been special to Jihoon, in his heart of hearts.

He wishes Seungcheol didn’t have such sway over him, but maybe that just makes him a control freak, in the end.

“Yeah,” Jihoon agrees.

“Kinda miss it,” Seungcheol adds.

“Yeah.” Jihoon looks down and tracks the movement of their shadows again, clipped and abstract shapes in the bright city night. “Hardly any time for it anymore,” Jihoon says.

Maybe they just don’t make time for it anymore? Jihoon isn’t sure if the thought of _excuses_ comforts him or not.

“…Penny for your thoughts?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon doesn’t look up. “Just… thinking about stuff,” Jihoon mutters. He knows he’s said nothing, so he bites back a sigh and clarifies: “I mean—about how things have changed. Between… us.”

Seungcheol hums his acknowledgement. “That’s a toughie,” he comments.

Jihoon snorts. “Yeah,” he deadpans, “that’s one way to put it.”

Discomfort settles sharply against the walls of Jihoon’s stomach like a fistful of broken glass. He swallows the sudden lump in his throat.

 _We don’t talk about this,_ Jihoon thinks to himself. _We’re not gonna talk about this._

And they don’t. They finish their trip back to the dorm in silence. Jihoon pays it little attention, lost in the winding trails of his head.

The dorm is quiet when they return. Distant footsteps thud upstairs and there’s water running somewhere, but Jihoon is too used to these domestic sounds to pick them out. For now, only the sound of their clothes shuffling as they strip off their winter layers registers in the haze of his brain.

When Jihoon turns to flick the front light off, he bumps into Seungcheol’s chest. He barely has time to think as Seungcheol zips up his sweater again, trapping Jihoon against his body.

“Hey,” Jihoon protests weakly. There’s nothing he can do from this position, but while he’s being frank with himself, it’s not like he really wants to fight. He _avoids_ conflict with Seungcheol for a reason; and Seungcheol usually respects that, but maybe he’s been affected by this sweater business just as much as Jihoon has.

Seungcheol scoops Jihoon up, using his sweater as a sling. Tucked against Seungcheol’s chest like this, Jihoon can’t see where they’re headed, but he trusts Seungcheol, despite holding his breath in anticipation. He curls his fingers in Seungcheol’s shirt and waits.

The click of Seungcheol’s zipper is immense in Jihoon’s ears as he unfurls onto a couch. He recognizes the couch immediately: they’re in one of the common rooms in the dorm. Jihoon glances over Seungcheol’s shoulder and sees the lock in the doorknob is turned.

With wide eyes, Jihoon looks up at Seungcheol. Seungcheol looks back at him unwaveringly.

Jihoon pulls his fingers out of Seungcheol’s shirt. He swallows.

“Wh-What’s up?” Jihoon asks.

When Seungcheol speaks, his head is tilted towards the ground, and yet his voice still manages to seem so voluminous in the quiet. “I think we’re done dancing around this,” he states. “Don’t you?”

Jihoon swallows. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to say—he can’t formulate comprehensible words. Any sound that his throat tries to squeeze out of his body dies against the roof of his mouth.

“The last time… the last time I tried to just ignore things until they went away—well.” Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair, brushing dark locks out of his eyes. Still, he refuses to look up. “You know how that went. So. I’ve decided that we’re done with dancing around this,” he explains.

Jihoon finally finds his tongue, though he can’t keep it for long as he says, “Wh-What’s…” Jihoon leans forward in his seat, seeking out Seungcheol’s eyes. “What do you mean by ‘this’?”

Suddenly, there’s a hand against the curve of Jihoon’s throat. Jihoon jerks, tilting his head back, making room for Seungcheol’s abrupt touch.

“This, Jihoon,” Seungcheol says, finally looking up. His eyes are dark and they burn through Jihoon’s body with no effort at all, leaving him singed at the edges. “This—thing between us.”

Again, Jihoon can’t speak. His thoughts run wild in the expanse of his brain, thundering footsteps across the confines of his skull, and he can’t focus, not with the heat of Seungcheol’s hand searing through him, not with the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze bearing on him like leagues and leagues of water.

When his voice finally slithers out from between his teeth, Jihoon can only manage a weak, “eh?”

Seungcheol chuckles. He leans forward, settling one of his knees next to Jihoon’s hip. His fingertips are gentle as they brush away some of Jihoon’s hair out of his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Seungcheol murmurs, “I can let my actions speak for me.”

That’s a line if Jihoon ever heard one, but he’s affected nonetheless, a sucker like always— _a fool for you._

Jihoon snorts, but the response is weak and Seungcheol sidesteps it with ease. He plants his other knee on the other side of Jihoon’s hips.

“That is, unless—” Seungcheol pauses for dramatic effect. “—you have any objections?”

Jihoon’s breath whistles between his parted lips.

He isn’t sure.

That’s a lie. He _is_ sure: he wants this. The beast prowling around his core is impatient and hungry and Jihoon barely has the guts to stare it down. His rational brain is flipping frantically through slides explaining why giving into this physical desire is a bad idea, but that part of his brain is brittle and collapses when the beast within pounces.

Jihoon shakes his head.

Seungcheol descends upon him and Jihoon drowns. Heat envelops him so quickly, so wholly, and he’s surprised that he doesn’t melt on the spot.

Gasping against Seungcheol’s mouth, Jihoon grabs fistfuls of Seungcheol’s shirt in hopes of anchoring himself. It’s _so much_ —not that Jihoon had any idea of what to expect. Seungcheol floods his senses and Jihoon drowns, hurtling down the depths of Seungcheol at an alarming rate.

“Hey,” Seungcheol whispers, parting just enough to allow his words space to vibrate through the air. Jihoon realizes his eyes are clamped shut, but he doesn’t dare open them yet. “You’re shaking, Jihoon-ah.”

Jihoon’s brain unlocks enough for him to register the tight claws his hands have formed. He slides them up the expanse of Seungcheol’s chest and rests them on Seungcheol’s shoulders.

“Sorry,” Jihoon mutters. The brush of his lips against Seungcheol’s as he speaks is already enough to set sparks flying at the base of his spine.

Seungcheol brushes his fingers through Jihoon’s hair, and the gentle gesture is cool against the heat of Jihoon’s rushing blood. Seungcheol shifts and Jihoon opens his eyes to see Seungcheol sitting by his side. Air seems to be coming to Jihoon’s lungs more easily now. He folds his hands in his lap.

“H-Hyung?” Jihoon asks.

Seungcheol smiles at him. It’s a small smile, the slight curve of his plush lips, but it helps Jihoon’s brain settle a little more.

“This is a bit… more than expected, huh?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon doesn’t say anything.

“Hey.” Seungcheol pats the top of his thighs, drawing Jihoon’s eyes to the spot immediately. “Come here.”

Jihoon looks up at Seungcheol. Seungcheol pats the spot again.

Without replying, Jihoon climbs onto Seungcheol’s lap. He digs his socked feet into the crease of the couch cushions behind Seungcheol’s back and folds his knees under Seungcheol’s elbows.

Seungcheol looks up at Jihoon with a smile. Then he lifts both hands to cup Jihoon’s jaw. His fingers shake against the sharp angles of Jihoon’s cheekbones.

Maybe he’s affected just as much as Jihoon is. There are so many things Jihoon will never know—and maybe he’ll just have to live with that reality.

Seungcheol’s gaze on him is so damn heavy Jihoon can feel his back bending under the pressure. A multitude of sentiments bubble in Jihoon’s chest, but he can’t bear to utter them—not like this, not now, maybe not ever. But Seungcheol remains silent as well, and maybe that’s just what they’ll have to settle for. Maybe they’ll have to keep this silence—no words needed for this relationship between the two of them—and transform it into something precious.

“Do you trust me?” Seungcheol asks, and the sudden sound rattles vehemently in the space between Jihoon’s ears.

Jihoon dips his head in a nod.

Another smile spreads across Seungcheol’s mouth. He settles his shaking hands behind Jihoon’s ears and strokes the short hair on the back of his head.

When Seungcheol kisses Jihoon again, it feels a lot less like drowning and more like floating. Seungcheol’s mouth is thick molasses and Jihoon skims the surface with ease. Seungcheol’s tongue breaches Jihoon’s lips and Jihoon feels himself slowly sucked into the viscous liquid.

It’s fine, though; it’s _nice._ There’s something to be said about _free-floating_ —not that Jihoon can find the words to describe it right now.

Seungcheol lowers his head to suck at Jihoon’s neck. Jihoon sighs, his head lolling backwards, and tangles his fingers in Seungcheol’s hair.

The air of the common room is cold in the middle of winter, but it doesn’t deter Seungcheol’s quest to divest Jihoon of his clothes. Jihoon is quick to return the favour, and when they kiss again, their chests are pressed flush against each other. The rapid beat Seungcheol’s heart against Jihoon’s rib cage comforts him and excites him at the same time.

Seungcheol is none too gentle as he plays with both of Jihoon’s nipples while scraping his teeth over Jihoon’s neck. As Jihoon moans openly, he cages Seungcheol in with his arms, his toes curling in his socks. He rolls his hips over and over, relishing the hot friction his efforts reward him with. Seungcheol voices his appreciation as well, growling into Jihoon’s skin, and Jihoon gives into the urge to smile smugly.

“I want you, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol whispers. His breath is short and hot against the column of Jihoon’s throat. “Can I have you? Pretty please?”

Jihoon laughs breathlessly. He feels Seungcheol grin against his skin before he pulls back to gauge Seungcheol’s expression: Seungcheol’s eyes are huge, blazing hotly under the common room lights; a flush sits pretty over the twin sweeps of his cheekbones; his full lips are parted just enough to allow air in and out of his lungs.

Jihoon grins down at him, elated and victorious.

“Of course,” Jihoon replies, brushing his thumb over the curve of Seungcheol’s mouth. Seungcheol’s tongue darts out to meet his touch and the smile on Jihoon’s face widens.

Part of Jihoon would follow Seungcheol to the ends of the earth—it’s no stretch of the imagination to allow Seungcheol into his asshole, or wherever it is Seungcheol wants to be.

“I don’t have any…” Seungcheol gestures vaguely. “It’s not like I was planning for this or anything—”

“Of course,” Jihoon says again, his tone much more playful this time around.

Seungcheol grins, his dimples popping into place. “I could run to our room real quick—”

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Jihoon makes a show of slinging his legs off Seungcheol’s lap.

“Should I time you?” Jihoon asks dryly.

Seungcheol shakes his head and jumps to his feet.

“It’ll only take a second!” he calls over his shoulder.

Jihoon slumps against the couch cushions and watches the door. Somewhere in the distance, someone calls Seungcheol’s name, but then the door’s opening again. Seungcheol slides into the room and locks the door again. When he turns to face Jihoon, he grins, his chest heaving, and holds up a bottle of lube.

“It’s almost empty,” Jihoon comments, raising an eyebrow.

The grin on Seungcheol’s face is shameless as he crosses the room. “Can you blame a guy for having urges?” he asks.

“My concern is about where you’ve found the time to jack it so often,” Jihoon replies.

“Maybe I just like things real slick.”

“Then I’m guessing you’re gonna use the rest of it on me?”

Seungcheol hums. When he takes a seat next to Jihoon on the couch, he knocks their knees together, an oddly friendly gesture that belies the nature of their conversation.

“Well,” Seungcheol starts, “unless you wanted to use it on me.”

Jihoon exhales. “Hadn’t really thought about it,” he says, “like, at all.”

“Hmm.”

Seungcheol turns and captures Jihoon’s mouth in a kiss. It’s a surprisingly fluid motion, the twist of Seungcheol’s torso to close the distance between their bodies, and Jihoon arches his back to meet him. Seungcheol’s tongue in his mouth feels familiar now, more so than Jihoon thinks he should be ready to admit, and as they kiss, Seungcheol grabs Jihoon by the ass and hoists him into his lap.

“Well,” Seungcheol says when they part, his voice deliciously hoarse, “I’ve thought about it. A lot.”

“Explains the constant jerking off,” Jihoon quips. Seungcheol pinches his ass.

“Let me talk,” Seungcheol grumbles, though it sounds more like a whine than anything. “In my head,” he continues, his voice dropping low and deep, “I’ve imagined you on your back, moaning my name like a prayer—but I’ve also thought of you fucking me hard enough to make me forget that I’m responsible for anything but making you come.”

“Wow,” Jihoon breathes. “But—that really doesn’t help us with the whole decision-making thing.”

“Which idea appeals to you more, then?” Seungcheol grips Jihoon’s thighs and slides him higher up his lap, dragging their bodies together. Jihoon inhales sharply and instinctively inclines his hips forward. “Would you rather I fuck you? Would you rather feel my cock driving in and out of you over and over? Would you rather I bend you over this couch and take you until you’re seeing stars?”

Seungcheol’s chin rests in the dip of Jihoon’s shoulder and his breath falls against Jihoon’s skin with every word he says.

“Or would you rather fuck me instead? Make me a whimpering mess? Make me forget everything but the feeling of you in me?” Seungcheol’s voice wavers at the end of that, and the corners of Jihoon’s lips quick upwards. “Fuck me until I forget my fucking name?”

Jihoon traces the lines of Seungcheol’s chest with his fingertip. He drags his nail across one of Seungcheol’s nipples, drawing a shudder out of him.

“Sounds like you liked that last part,” Jihoon murmurs.

Jihoon scrapes his nails along the line of Seungcheol’s throat. When his fingers hit Seungcheol’s hairline, he grabs a fistful and pulls Seungcheol into a hard kiss. It’s a shift in the tide, the feeling of Seungcheol opening up for him, but Jihoon revels in the way that tension seems to bleed out of Seungcheol’s body.

Again, affection climbs up Jihoon’s chest, a rising wave of fondness threatening to crash against him and bowl him over. He seizes the momentum of the rolling water and uses it to devour every ounce of Seungcheol offered to him: he cups Seungcheol’s jaw and pulls him up, up, up, drawing him taut like a string, exercising control and power familiar to him like commanding in the studio, foreign to him like disobeying an unspoken rule dividing hyung and dongsaeng.

Jihoon sits back on his heels and Seungcheol follows him. Jihoon strokes the back of Seungcheol’s neck soothingly and listens to the sound of Seungcheol’s heavy breathing battering his chest.

Leaning forward, Jihoon kisses Seungcheol again. His hands are gentle as he urges Seungcheol to strip off the rest of his clothes, and he follows with no fuss when Seungcheol does the same to him.

Seungcheol settles back onto the couch—Jihoon wishes his members a mental apology for the nature of their actions in a common space—and looks up expectantly at Jihoon. His big doe eyes are so soft as he gazes up at Jihoon that Jihoon can’t help but reach out and run gentle fingers through Seungcheol’s hair.

Something affectionate and fond hangs on the tip of Jihoon’s tongue. He still can’t voice it, so he leans forward and hopes to communicate it through his kiss. Seungcheol’s equally soft response makes Jihoon want to believe he understood the sentiment.

“I’m not… I’m not exactly sure what you want,” Jihoon admits as he picks up the bottle of lube. He eyes it with caution, avoiding Seungcheol’s gaze.

“Come here,” Seungcheol replies. He grabs Jihoon’s wrist and pulls him into the space between his legs. He guides Jihoon’s hand to his cock and together they give it a few pumps. Shuddering, Seungcheol lets his head fall back against the couch.

“What I want…” Seungcheol pauses to lick his lips. “I want you to fuck me, Jihoon,” he says. “I just want you in me.”

Seungcheol lifts a leg and wraps it loosely around Jihoon’s waist. Jihoon’s immediate response is to support it. Seungcheol smiles at him.

“Make me come,” Seungcheol tells him. “Make me scream your name.”

A shiver rolls through Jihoon’s body. He nods, holding Seungcheol’s hot gaze for a second before letting his eyes roam over Seungcheol’s body.

It’s a simple concept and Jihoon trusts Seungcheol to let him know if he wants something else. There’s no need to worry.

Jihoon’s free hand drifts down Seungcheol’s chest and stomach, following the lines of his muscles. When he arrives at the crease of Seungcheol’s thighs, he takes Seungcheol’s cock into his hand. He swipes his thumb up the underside and watches as Seungcheol reacts immediately, jerking his hips upwards.

Jihoon grins.

The bottle of lube makes a loud _click_ when Jihoon opens it. The sound is followed by a comical _spurt_ when Jihoon pours some onto his hand.

“You’re a fucking pervert,” Jihoon muses, working Seungcheol’s erection with one hand. He pulls at Seungcheol’s legs with the other, encouraging Seungcheol to slide lower down the couch so he can reach his ass. “Touching yourself so often. Thinking of me while doing it. Thinking about me _fucking_ you…”

He pours more lube over Seungcheol’s entrance. “Was it anything like this?” Jihoon continues. One of his fingers slides into Seungcheol with relative ease. “Were you on your back? Or did I have you on all fours?”

Seungcheol spreads his legs wider, bracing his weight on the edge of the couch.

“Both,” he pants. His breath hitches when Jihoon slides another finger in. “I’ve thought about it—a _lot_.” He gasps the last word as Jihoon crooks his fingers. “God, yes. You’ve got such—such pretty hands, Jihoonie. Musician’s hands. Talented fingers.”

Jihoon gives a pleased little hum as he works said fingers in and out of Seungcheol’s asshole.

“I’ve heard that before, yeah,” Jihoon agrees with a slight laugh. “Should such pretty fingers be doing something so dirty?”

Seungcheol shudders when Jihoon adds yet another finger. “That’s the best part,” Seungcheol states.

Jihoon pushes into Seungcheol with more force, smirking to himself when Seungcheol’s eyes fall shut. He alternates between quick, shallow thrusts and probing movements, searching for Seungcheol’s prostate. The smirk on his face transforms into a full-blown grin when Seungcheol cries out and jerks his hips. _Found it._

“Jihoon,” Seungcheol groans. “Jihoon, you—mm, god, fuck me already.”

“Your wish is my command,” Jihoon replies. The grin on his face lingers as he pulls his fingers out and delights in the whimper that falls from Seungcheol’s lips.

With another _spurt_ of the lube bottle, Jihoon slicks his cock up. He hadn’t touched himself this whole time, and the sudden attention has him whining. He looks up only when Seungcheol loops his legs around his hips, and he finds Seungcheol grinning at him.

“Sorry, baby,” Seungcheol says. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging for so long.”

Jihoon purses his lips, unsure about the pet name, but he pushes the thought away in favour of focusing on the task at hand.

“I’ll have my fun,” Jihoon assures him. “Don’t you worry.”

When Jihoon pushes in, they both groan. The tight heat around him makes his head swim for a brief moment, but Seungcheol’s thighs squeezing his waist snaps him out of it.

“Come on,” Seungcheol urges him, “I’m not gonna break. Give it all you’ve got, Jihoonie.”

Heaving a shuddering sigh, Jihoon buries his cock all the way up to the hilt. He takes a moment to adjust Seungcheol’s legs so that they’re draped over his shoulders, and then he takes another moment to drink in the sight. Sprawled out on the couch like this, arms splayed to brace his weight, covered in sweat, chest heaving, Seungcheol looks absolutely _wrecked._

He crumbles further when Jihoon starts to thrust and Jihoon absolutely _loves it._ He wonders how far he can push it—how much will it take to get Seungcheol to crack?

Jihoon shifts his weight and takes Seungcheol’s knees into a vice grip. The leverage gives him an excellent angle to plow into Seungcheol with abandon. Seungcheol _howls._

“Yes! Fuck!” Seungcheol cries. He’s already got a hand on his own erection, pumping frantically. “Just like that! Fuck me, Jihoon!”

The look of pure ecstasy on Seungcheol’s face sends sparks through Jihoon’s body, but he wonders if he can push it even further. He shifts his angle little by little, watching Seungcheol’s expression, listening intently to the curses falling from his lips, and when his cock finds a certain spot within Seungcheol’s body, Seungcheol screams again.

“There! Fuck, again!” Seungcheol sobs. “Please, Jihoon! More!”

Grinning wickedly, Jihoon abuses the spot over and over. Seungcheol throws his head back against the couch cushions and pulls erratically at his cock, chasing his climax with such delicious desperation Jihoon can taste it.

“Yes!” Seungcheol chants. “Yes! Yes! Fuck! Jihoon!”

With a strangled cry of Jihoon’s name, Seungcheol comes all over his hand and stomach. Jihoon continues to thrust into him wildly, seeking his own orgasm while milking Seungcheol for all he’s worth.

“Come on, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol moans, “yes, that’s it—god, baby, come for me, come on—”

When Jihoon comes, he curls his body forward and presses his forehead to Seungcheol’s chest. He feels fingers in his hair immediately, stroking affectionately as Jihoon jerks through the last moments of his orgasm.

Seungcheol gathers Jihoon into his arms and kisses the top of Jihoon’s head. “That’s it, baby, you did so well,” he praises into Jihoon’s hair. “You were so good for me, Jihoon-ah. So good.”

Jihoon wraps his arms around Seungcheol’s back and holds him close despite the streaks of come sticking to his body. He’s quiet for a while, content to be held as he catches his breath.

When he pulls back, he sweeps a hand over one of Seungcheol’s cheeks. Seungcheol grins at him, prompting Jihoon to poke a finger into one of Seungcheol’s dimples.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Jihoon mumbles under his breath.

The grin on Seungcheol’s face widens. “As long as it’s with you, I’m guaranteed to love it,” he replies.

Blushing, Jihoon turns his head away from Seungcheol’s earnest gaze. His gentle, lingering touch betrays his expression, however, but he can’t find it in himself to resist the affectionate gestures.

“Come on,” Seungcheol says, “let’s clean up.”

 

* * *

 

When they exit the common room, the dorm is very still and very quiet. They exchange glances with each other before tiptoeing to their bedroom.

Jeonghan and Mingyu are waiting for them when they open the door.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Jeonghan states. He’s stroking a hand through a visibly distressed Mingyu’s hair.

“So loud,” Mingyu whines. “So, _so_ loud.”

“Uh,” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol points a finger in Jihoon’s direction. “It was his fault!” he cries. His voice comes out hoarse and it cracks at the end. Jihoon can’t help but smile at that.

“Just because he was the one—” Jeonghan starts, but Mingyu flails his arms, cutting him off.

“Let’s—let’s just talk about it in the morning!” Mingyu exclaims. He jumps to his feet and clambers up to the top bunk. “Goodnight everyone!”

Jeonghan’s eyes glint with something sharp. “Yes,” he agrees, “let’s discuss it in the morning. With everyone.”

Seungcheol and Jihoon exchange looks again. They’ll have a lot to deal with in the morning—but, Jihoon thinks as smiles spread over both their faces, it was definitely worth it.


End file.
